


Fifteen Puzzle

by ThroughtheMirrorDarkly



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Romance, Sassy Jacob Frye, Unresolved Emotional Tension, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 03:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15900396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly/pseuds/ThroughtheMirrorDarkly
Summary: She liked to fit people into the world like puzzle pieces. Frustratingly, she couldn’t figure out just where to place Jacob Frye.





	Fifteen Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Assassin’s Creed. This is to challenge myself as a writer.  
> Summary: She liked to fit people into the world like puzzle pieces. Frustratingly, she couldn’t figure out just where to place Jacob Frye.  
> Pairing: Jacob Frye/Reader  
> Prompts: “She liked to fit people into the world like puzzles pieces.”/He stared at the bodies on the ground, at the girl covered in blood. Her eyes narrowed as she rose. “You’re late.”/ “I don’t think of you as a protector. More of a distraction.”/ “Do you even know how to drive this thing?” “Normally I would lie and say yes, but considering I almost ran into that building, I’m assuming you know the answer.”/ “You’re one insult away from starting a war.”/ “Because my momma raised me to be a lady, I know when and what fork to use at a formal dinner. Because my momma didn’t raise a fool, I know what artery to stick it in so that you will bleed out in one minute.”/ “You’re the Crown Prince of Collateral Damage.”/ “Shut up.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Don’t care. Shut up.”/ “Come here.” “Why?” “Just come here.” “No, you’re going to hit me.”/ “I don’t go looking for trouble, but I do enjoy befriending it.”/ (Prompts may not appear in order as listed, and I may or may not edit them ever so slightly.)
> 
> * * *

* * *

Fifteen Puzzle 

By ThroughtheMirrorDarkly 

_Fifteen Puzzle: a term used in Victorian times, meaning “completely and absolute confusion.”_

* * *

The drizzle of rain hit the cobblestone streets with a little pitter patter, and Elizabeth Carry watched it washed away the blood that surrounded her. On her hands and knees, her heart was pounding with all the force of thunder and the knife still clutched in a knuckle white fist. Her green eyes were rounded and her pupils the size of a pinprick, her dark brown hair was plastered to her face. She was drenched to the bone, the scent of death surrounding her in a haze and she barely registered when Jacob Frye arrived. A shadow from above and the clatter of his boots as he dropped to the ground, she was too lost to look at him right this moment. Her nerve endings where firing off with pain and panic, having a simple cargo hijack go so poorly wrong so fast and so chaotic that her mind was in a rush to figure out where it went wrong. 

Too many blighters. It was supposed to be a small cargo, no need for so many guards. 

She saw Jacob look at her, surrounded by dead Blighters and covered in blood. She could see the words that he bit back, something on her expression kept him speaking in that moment and her eyes narrowed as she rose. “You’re late,” she said, her voice rough and raw. 

“There was an old lady who needed help crossing the street,” Jacob replied, his words more glib than his quiet and soft tone in his voice. His dark eyes swept over her, assessing the damage she had taken and did in return. “You seemed to handle yourself just right though if you had taken my offer for some Rooks to guard your back, you might not have had to get your hands dirty.” 

Elizabeth glowered at him, irritation flared in her expression. She was beginning to remember why she hated working with the Rooks and their leader, and she shook her head side to side as she stumbled over to the carriage. “It was supposed to be a simple cargo. Just goods and medical supplies, nothing that was so worth guarding with the zealously that these Blighters possessed,” Elizabeth retorted, harshly. She was an unofficial doctor that helped the poor that couldn’t afford the high prices of professional. “It smells of a trap.” 

“You think someone set you up to be killed?” Jacob said, faintly surprised. 

“My practice has cut into Crawford Starrick’s profits since I have spoken openly and loudly that Soothing Syrup was nothing more than slow acting poison in a bottle. Not to mention that I have criticized Dr. Elliotson’s methods in the papers under a penname and openly to the police. I might be a small thorn, but I’m still in their side being a pain,” she said, rolling the tension from her shoulder as she settled down into the seat. Her hands grasped the reins, and she raised an eyebrow as Jacob leapt up to stand on the boxes of cargo in the back of the wagon. “What are you doing?” 

“You need a protector to help guard the cargo,” Jacob shrugged, with his charming lopsided smile. “I have a gun and my aim is never off.” 

Elizabeth craned her head to give him the side eye. “I don’t think of you as a protector, more of a distraction,” she snorted, her pink lips thinned out in a firm line. She tugged on the reins, urging the two black stallions forward and out of the shady alcove in a corner of White Chapel. 

“You find me distracting, do you?” Jacob smirked, with a seductive purr in his voice. 

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Only you would try to flirt at a time like this.” 

“Always, darling,” he winked. 

Elizabeth bit back the grin that twitched at her lips, and looked away from him. Her words may have been in jest, but he really was distracting to her for a multiple reasons. It would be easy to just wheedle it down to physical attraction alone though that was not the case by far. Jacob was easy on the eyes with his rugged good looks that many women and a few men swoon at his feet. Those deep set eyes that held a wick gleam, and devilish smirk that graced his lips. Dressed with his signature top hat—she swears he has an entire closet full given how often he loses them during battles—and his waistcoat in an sapphire brocade, with a silver necktie over a white workshirt. He had a dark faille jacket with quilted leather on the collar and lapel, the coat had been tailored to fit him. (It had been a gift, handmade for him by the local tailor in White Chapel after Jacob and Evie had saved him from Blighters.) 

But the truth was that whatever she felt for Jacob was no shallow and only skin deep. She just couldn’t put her finger on a word or way to describe the way he made her heart flutter, how that despite their verbal spars she enjoyed his company no matter how much she tried to hide it. It unnerved how easily he cut a path into her life and made himself at home, like he had always belonged there. She was analytical and compartmentalized everything and anything in her life, even people. She liked to put people into the world like puzzle pieces, like to give each person a place where they fit and belonged even if it was all inside her head. It was a coping mechanism she had developed in order to deal with the harder and unhealthy aspects of her childhood. 

And frustratingly, she couldn’t figure out where to place Jacob Frye. 

He wasn’t exactly close to her that she’d call him a friend. They were fairly antagonistic to one another, even though they worked together against Starrick. For all her attraction to him, she had never crossed the boundaries into lovers though she entertained the idea from time to time, but she fumbled with physical intimacies so she had sworn them off all together. An ally? She supposed he was that, but it seemed too one dimensional. She could just call him an ally and be done with it. Before she could fall down the well of thoughts, the sound of gunfire cracked against the stone streets and she felt a bullet whiz by her head. 

“Incoming!” Jacob shouted. 

Elizabeth snapped the reins, and the horses neighed loudly as they lurched forward in a sprint. The wagon creaked and groaned at the sudden change in pace, and Jacob held tight to the side with one hand to keep himself balance while he fired his gun at the Blighters carriage that surged up beside them. Pedestrians leapt out of the way of the oncoming carriages, and hysteria filled the air with people screaming at the top of the lungs. It wasn’t uncommon for gang fights to spill out into the streets, but here in White Chapel, the police presence was lacking and therefore violence often got a lot worse than it did get better. 

The Rooks did try their best to stifle the Blighters, but Starrick’s lackeys were stubborn like cockroaches. They were not so easily crushed under heel, and were not so easily lost, Elizabeth thought to herself, as she turned the wagon sharply to the left down a one way street. The back of the wagon clipped a lamppost, knocking it down with a loud crash. It didn’t even have the courtesy of smashing into the Blighters that stayed steadily in pursuit. 

Hooves pounded against the cobblestone like thunder as rain crashed down on top of them, and Elizabeth checked behind her worriedly at Jacob. The Assassin was nimble and agile, but the boxes grew slick with water and he was struggling to stay steady with the harsh pace she set. She had to lose the Blighters or things were going to get much, much worse. Another sharp turn down a dirt alley way, and she nick the side of the building. 

“Do you even know how to drive this thing?” Jacob demanded in a hiss. His shot had missed the Blighters head entirely due to the sudden change in direction. 

“Normally I would lie and say yes, but considering I ran into that building and lamppost, I’m assuming you know the answer,” Elizabeth shot back, through clenched teeth. She twisted the reins, forcing the horses to rush past carriages that were moving far too slow on the street. A random man cursed at her, waving his fist in her direction when the wheels of her wagon smashed against his. She didn’t stop or falter though, the reins held in a steady grip despite the way fear burned through her veins so hot that she felt that she would turn into ash from the inside out. 

The wheels spun violently down the street, the wagon jolted and swayed. The horse cried out in fear when she swerved into the other lane, and narrowly drove the wagon between two other carriages. “Oi! Can you keep this thing steady so I can fire off a decent shot?” Jacob shouted, annoyance slashing across his face. 

“I don’t need driving lessons from the Crown Prince of Collateral Damage, thank you very much!” Elizabeth countered, giving him the stink eye before her head snapped back towards the road. Another bullet was fired, but this time, Jacob gave a shout of pain that made her heart stop inside of her chest. Blood splattered down just inches from where she sat, and she saw Jacob pitch sideways towards the road below. 

She grabbed him, swift and on instinct. 

Her shoulder blade gave a sharp pop, pulling viciously out of place. Her vision whited out for a couple of seconds and prickles of numbness followed by an inferno of pain spread out through her limb, but her fingers held tight, not letting go. She isn’t sure where she found the strength, but it had been just enough—just enough for Jacob to not fall out on the road, and likely to his death. His features were taut with pain, but he hauled himself into the seat next to her with a low grunt. A mixture of tears from relief and pain scalded down her cheeks, lost in the rain and she said, in a shaken, breathless voice, “Don’t do that!” 

“Like I wanted to get shot,” Jacob glared. 

Elizabeth bit back a retort on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she glanced down at his belt where his smoke bombs were. Wrapping the rein around her right hand, the arm was useless with the shoulder jointed injured but she could fight to keep the carriage steady down the straight stretch. The pain was agonizing and left her short of breath, but she would bear it if it meant escape the red coat ruffian. She reached out with her left hand fumbling, as they were jostled about by the rough and dirt road. The Blighters carriage smacked into the back of theirs, and she went beet red when her hand ended up grasping something that was _not_ a smoke bomb. 

“Love, I don’t think this is the time for you to be playing with my tackle, now do you?” Jacob teased, pressing a hand tight against the bullet along his side to stop the blood flow. 

“For God’s sake, Jacob!” Her eyes flashed with ire and she felt her blush grow until it spanned from the roots of her hair down to the tips of her toes. She could barely believe that he would imply she was attempting to touch him in such a manner, but then she recalled just who she was dealing with and her disbelief lost all its suspension. “I’m trying to grab a smoke bomb!” 

“Then ask nicely,” Jacob said, with a sharp grin. 

“Are you bloody serious?” Elizabeth snarled. 

His hand engulfed hers, in a vice grip and stopped her fumbled attempts to pull a bomb from his belt. His fingers pressed down, squeezing her tiny and lithe fingers that felt as a fragile as a bird’s wing in his grasp, and she felt a torrent of emotions tear through her at his tough. Her gaze swept upward and met his, his eyes dark and demanding. _But demanding what?_ Elizabeth couldn’t understand. She didn’t know why he was choosing now of all times to assert his dominance, if that is what this was, but it felt like there was something more. Something hidden in his dark eyes that was written in a language that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend. 

Elizabeth curled her hand into a fist and was ready to clock him, when she caught a flash of red out of the corner of her vision. She saw the Blighters carriage up beside them, and only the pillars of the train above kept the Blighter fool from firing his next shot. The barrel of his gun was steady however, and aimed straight at her head. 

“Jacob, _please_!” She said, her voice high-pitched with panic. 

Realization flashed through his dark eyes like lightning, and he released her hand. Elizabeth didn’t even have time to aim as they passed the last pillar; she just threw the smoke bomb and prayed. It soared through the air and smacked the Blighter right upside the face before it exploded violently. Smoke released in a sharp hiss coated the air in the blink of an eye, and the bullet meant for her skull hit the backside of the wagon instead, splintering the wood there. Elizabeth felt her breaths coming too fast, and the road was a blurry vision in front of her. It was only a minute before they stood in front of the warehouse that was secretly her hospital and she barely heard the Rooks that stood guard shout for them to pull the gate open. 

The wooden gate opened noisily, the hinges shrill and needed oiling. As soon as she pulled the carriage into the warehouse, the gate was closed behind them to prevent anyone from following or any Blighters to catch sight of them if they were lurking nearby. She slumped against the seat of the wagon, the white hot agony in her shoulder the only anchor that kept her from slipping into shock. She could feel Jacob’s stare burning into the side of her face. She clenched her eyes shut tight, and the reins slipped out from between her quaking fingers. “Shut up.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Don’t care,” Elizabeth swallowed, thickly. “Shut up.” 

He may not have used actual words, but his expression spoke volumes. If one comforting word slipped out of his mouth then she wouldn’t be able to piece back her composure. She would crumble into one big sobbing mess, and she couldn’t allow that to happen. She slipped out of the cart onto her unsteady legs, and focused on the approaching man. “Get the medicine off the carriage and sorted. I want a full catalogue done within the hour,” she ordered, her chest felt too tight. It felt like someone had twisted her lungs up into a tangled mess of knots, and she couldn’t get enough to satisfy her body. “There are people who are in dire need of treatment, and I need to know what I’m working with.” 

“Right away, Miss Carry,” Lee nodded, before he rushed off. He barked out order to the Rooks loitering around, the men and women in green jackets had become a fixture in her little hovel ever since she had joined forces with the Frye twins and Mister Green. 

Elizabeth felt the jittery nerves settle in deep along her skin, the burst of adrenaline that had enveloped her sense during the chase slowly drained out of her almost instantly. Her eyes lid grew heavy, but she shook her head violently to stave off the exhaustion. Her arm would not fix itself and Jacob’s bullet wound needed stitching. She rotated on heel to face the youngest Frye twin, and for some reason the sight of him in that moment speared through her gut like a wicked hot blade. 

His expression was impassive and downcast, he stood immobile like a statue with his shoulders hunched forward and hand pressed against his wound, the blood seeping through his fingers. He seemed so lost and distant in a way that she had never noticed before. He had always seemed so lively and outlandish, with only Evie as the sole person in the world that rein him back in when he would spiral into chaos and drag everyone else with him. But there was a serious edge to him that few saw—she was seeing it in this moment, and actually comprehending it for what it was. A painful lonely etched onto his features that made her hands ache to smooth it away. Her heart gave a sharp pang in her chest and her voice came out in a breathless whisper, “Come here.” 

His head snapped towards her, as if her words had been like a cattle prod. The gaze his dark eyes raked over her was meticulous, as if trying to discern what she wasn’t willing to say out loud. Confusion furrowed along his brow, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why?” He drawled out, very slowly and he shifted on the balls of his feet like he was ready to sprint. 

A small sigh fell from her lips and she tunneled her fingers through her hair nervously. “Ju—just come here,” Elizabeth said, her hands falling to her hips and she stared at him expectantly. 

“No, you’re going to hit me.” 

Elizabeth let out light scoff, and walked over towards him. He flinched slightly as if he had truly and well though she was going to hit him, but all she did was wrap her hand around his and tugged on his arm until he relented, and followed her back to one of the private rooms. It was her room fashioned into her bedroom with a four poster bed with curtains drawn back, a desk with in the corner with the lush green chair slightly askew and parchment covering it in a chaotic mess. She closed the door behind them, and led him to the chair. “Remove your jacket and shirt, then sit,” she ordered without preamble, and fought to keep her tone as professional as she could. 

Jacob’s brow rose towards his hairline. “If you wanted to get me alone, all you had to do was ask,” Jacob teased, with a crooked smirk. 

Elizabeth fought the urge to groan. He was such a flirt, and it didn’t help that he was so damn attractive. She found herself often resisting the urge to draw her fingers along his jawline, to brush it along the stubble there from where he hadn’t shaved in about a day. He was roguish and witty and wholly unapologetic for brash way he rushed through life. He was a flame, an inferno—something that could not be tamed, or fight into a single puzzle piece. “I want to check your bullet wound,” she told him, with a slight frown. “It was…it was my carelessness that got you shot in the first place. I should have tried to keep the wagon steady instead of panicking.” 

Surprise rushed through his dark eyes, almost too quick to catch. “That wasn’t your fault, love,” Jacob said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “That blasted Blighter was relentless. You did what you had to do to try and outrun him.” 

She gnawed on her lower lip, looking away. “Still…it would make me feel better if you’d let me see to your wound,” she whispered out, with a guilt swelling up in her chest. She was often cruel and unfriendly towards Jacob. She kept him at arms’ length for so many reasons, and for other reasons unclear to her, but she regretted all of it. When he had gotten shot, the sight of his blood had gutted her. Fear so powerful had made her whole world freeze up and the thought of a force of nature like Jacob Frye gone from the world, from her life—it left her cold and empty at the very thought. 

“If you are going to do that, you’ll need your arm popped back into place,” he commented, his tone seemingly idle. 

Her heart jostled against her ribcage as she lit the oil lamp. “It’ll be fine.” 

“You can’t move that arm in that condition, and I can see your fingers trembling in pain. I’d like a more steady touch to stitching me up, love,” Jacob said, dryly. He stepped forward, so close that she smelt the scent of rain, a hint of coal from the factory he liberated no doubt and something else. A dash of… _cologne tonic?_ Elizabeth thought, unconsciously drawing in deep breath. It was a scent that washed over her and relaxed her nerves, making her feel incredibly safe. It was the musk of sharp spice that overwhelmed her, followed by a soothing note of honey and lavender. “I can help you if you will let me. The Rooks occasionally have a mishap or two, so I’ve had the practice.” 

It was true, she hadn’t been able to move her right arm since the joint had popped out of place. She had it huddled awkwardly to her side, and had tried to avoid using her hand at all. Breathing sharply through her nose, she nodded shakily. She braced her back at the firm surface of the wall, while Jacob’s fingers encircled her wrist and elbow, pulling it out at a 90 degree angle. Her knees quaked as the pain fissured up her nerves and through her veins when Jacob started to gradually rotate her shoulder outward, and pushed in at the same moment. 

There was a sharp motion when the bone slid back into place, and stars burst across the back of her eyelids as a whimper tore up her throat. The burning pain throbbed in her shoulder for several heartbeats, and dulled into a white hot ache thereafter. “You…fucking bastard,” she whimpered, her face buried into her hand. Tears of pain leaked out of her eyes even though they were clenched shut and if it hadn't been for the hand at her waist to steady her, she would have collapsed to the ground. 

“Careful, darling, you are one insult away from starting a war,” he spoke, his hot breath spilling across her face. There was no real heat or threat in his words, at least none that left her in fear of physical retaliation. Yet there was an undercurrent, a rough burr to his sentence that made her heart thump in throat and hair on the nape of her neck to stand on edge. It was something deep and possessive that left her with the mental image of herself standing on the edge of a vast canyon where one good wind would send her plummeting into the abyss below. 

Elizabeth managed to calm her shivering breath. Her eyes peeled open slowly, her head tilted back to look up at him because he stood so close to her now. She could feel the warmth radiating off of him, and she had the impulse to burrow against his wide, sculpted chest. “Clothes,” she reminded him, her voice barely audible. “Off. And then sit down.” 

“All of them, love?” 

“You are incorrigible.” 

Jacob pulled back, with a half-smirk and reached up with his dexterous fingers started to undo his jacket. Elizabeth felt flustered by the sight, and quickly her attention to her Doctor’s Bag which set off to the side of the desk. Her cheeks felt stuck in a permanent blush, her body was too aware of where and what he was doing the entire time she pulled out needle, thread and alcohol. There was a nervy pinch in the pit of her stomach, and it erupted into fluttered that border along pain when her eyes moved towards Jacob—pulled as if by some kind of magnetism, just in time to see him pull his white cotton shirt up off of his shoulders. Her breath caught tight in her throat, and she found herself rooted to the spot. 

She was utterly mesmerized about the way his body moved. He looked like he had been carved out of marble, the taut broad shoulders and strapping upper arms that had been honed by years of training and fighting. There were many scars from those hard lessons that he had learned, and before she could stop herself, her hand lifted. Her fingertips traced the nasty looking scar that ran along his bicep, and Jacob tilted his head to peer at her. There was a moment where a complete stillness settled over, and Elizabeth felt so many things that she kept bottled up swell up inside. Her eyes looked up to clash with his dark smoldering gaze that left her mouth dry and heartbeat throbbing in her chest like a solid beat of a drum. 

“Barfight in Crawley. I was fifteen, drunk and stupid,” Jacob recalled, his eyes unblinking as he watched her thumb brush oh-so-gently across the scar. His skin was so felt like velvet over steel and the power coiled inside of him was volatile and ran hot. 

“You always find trouble, don’t you, Jacob?” Elizabeth said, more breathless than she cared to admit. She hastily pulled her hand away, holding in close to her chest and she chewed on her lower lip. 

“I don’t go looking for trouble,” Jacob whispered, with a roguish smirk, “but I do enjoy befriending it.” 

“I can believe that,” she chuckled. “Sit down. Let me get that wound cleaned up, hmm?” 

“Fine. Fine,” Jacob relented, with a mock put on sigh. He dropped into the chair, and sprawled himself out languidly. It didn’t matter what chair or what venue, Jacob claimed. He had all the airs of a king of thieves and a jack of all trades that lured in gold and trouble like a moth to the flame. He had a charisma, a fire that burnt bright that heralded people like a beacon in the night. “I bet you have a few scars yourself. A woman who holds her own in a battle against so many Blighters must know her way around a blade, and not just the end of a scalpel.” 

Elizabeth stalled for a split second in covering a cloth in the alcohol. A flicker of disquiet passed through her, dark memories swirled around her heart and she put the cork back into the bottle after the rag was properly doused. She spared him a thin smile, kneeling down so could she could assess the wound that ran along his side. The cut was about four inches long, but shallow. It would need a good amount of stitches, but it wasn’t by any means fatal. She peeked up at him through her lashes to see how the lamplight played enticingly over his features, and made his warm brown eyes appear like molasses in the sun. Her gaze jerked downward to his wound, feeling a flush crawl up her neck as she swabbed the cut gently with the cloth. 

It took her a few moments to work up an answer to his unasked question. Her childhood wasn’t something she often tried to think about. It had been a ridge, cold and bitter structure. Rules and lines boxed her in so tightly, and one step across of what was not acceptable would see her punished by her mother’s brutal hand. “My momma raised me to be a lady, I know when and what fork to use at a formal dinner. Because my momma didn’t raise a fool, I know what artery to stick it in that will cause a person to bleed out in one minute,” she told him, a trace of bitterness in her voice. “There were seven of them. That was seven minutes I had to survive. I knew as long as I could get in my hits where they counted and outlast those seven minutes then I could survive. I…” She hesitated after picking up the sterilized needle with the string attached. “I never realized how long seven minutes could actually feel until I was counting down the seconds in my head. It felt like an eternity passed during that fight, and aged me a hundred years.” 

“You look good for a hundred and twenty-two, if I do say so myself,” Jacob smiled, his cheeky humor parting the dark clouds over her head. “I am surprised about the article of clothing, though I have to say you do rather fetching in worker’s overhauls, certainly much better than fellows in the factories. Though if you were passing, your long locks are a dead giveaway,” he added, tugging on a curly strand of hair. 

She gave him a dry glance, setting the rag aside to pick up the needle. She threaded the string through with great care. “My hat got knocked off during the fight at some point, and this clothing is sensible when it comes to fights. Have you ever tried to fight in a dress?” she replied, with a hint of a smile on her face. She was careful and diligent in her work, making sure to try to cause him as little discomfort as possible. 

“No, but if you find me a frock, I’ll give it a go,” Jacob grinned, broadly. 

“A pink frock then?” She asked, pressing the needle in. 

He hissed as she drew it through his skin. “It has to be a _pretty_ one.” 

“Of course,” she laughed. “Nothing less than the best for Jacob Frye.” 

For a few minutes, a silence fell over them as Elizabeth would carefully to stitch up his wound. It was almost…a comfortable silence, she mused. There was no pressure to fill it or awkwardness that came with it. It was gentle and serene, despite all the terror and fright that had occurred earlier in day. Tying off the end of the stitches, she wiped away the excess blood away with rag. “You’ll have to be careful for the next few days. See a doctor to check and clean the stiches,” she advised, softly. 

Jacob laughed, picking up his shirt from her desk. He put it on, pulling his vest haphazardly over it, and slung his coat over his arm after he put on his hidden blade. He picked up his hat from her desk and rested it crookedly on top of his head. “Then I’ll be back for a check-up in a couple of days.” 

Elizabeth gaped at him. “I didn’t mean me.” 

“I know you didn’t, but you are the only one that I trust,” Jacob replied, honestly. 

Shock zipped through her like lightning, and she stared there utterly baffled by him. “You…you trust me?” she whispered out, as if the very idea of it was unconceivable to her. The two of them fought like cats and dogs, always getting on each other’s nerves, she didn’t understand why he would place just earnest trust in her. 

Jacob smiled. It wasn’t his snarky grin, or smug smirk. A genuine and soft smile pulled at him mouth, his dark eyes regarded her with a warm look that was filled with so much that it made her heart clench tight beneath her breast. His fingers slid underneath her chin, tilting her head back so that she was unable to avoid his gaze. She swallowed, hard. He lowered his face down towards hers, and her hand reached up to grab his wrist. To shove him away or to anchor herself, she didn’t know. 

Her head was a swirling torrent of thoughts and the beat of her heart roared against her eardrums like a battering ram. Her eyes slid closed with a mind of their own, and she exhaled sharply when the pad of his thumb ran across her soft lips. She felt his hot breath fan across her face, and then he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. Her entire body pitched forward, swaying towards him unconsciously as a need hummed in the air between them. It was an electric charge that was seductive and seemed to change something about the both of the fundamentally in that moment. 

Elizabeth wasn’t sure what had changed, only that it couldn’t be taken back. 

“Jacob,” she breathed his name out, like one did with a holy prayer. 

He pulled away from her, his thumb stroking along her jaw gently. “Don’t you dare die, Elizabeth Carry,” he told her, his voice deep and serious. “The world would be poorer for it.” 

And then pulled away from her, taking his heat, his scent, everything that Elizabeth had become so quickly addicted to and left her standing in the room all alone. She turned, catching a glimpse of him before the door swung shut behind him. Placing a hand over her chest, she tried to calm the frantic beat of her pulse to no avail. She wasn’t sure what to think about Jacob Frye, or why he made her feel so much. 

But she knew one important thing now. 

He felt the same way. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> END OF PROMPT!
> 
> I may add more to this eventually, as it is, it’s a stand alone.
> 
> 1.) Tackle—Victorian slang for penis.  
> 2.) DO NOT RELOCATE YOUR OWN SHOULDER UNLESS IT’S AN EMERGENCY!— The technique that Jacob and Elizabeth used is a bastardization of the Hennepin maneuver, which utilizes external rotation of the shoulder.  
> 3.) Jacob’s Flirting Ill Timed Flirting—Yeah, Jacob Frye is one of the few characters that I could safely say probably likes to flirt in life and death situations. He definitely likes to goad people, and the women (or man depending on your preference) of his affections, I feel he would deliberately go out of his way to be antagonistic to get a rise out of them. Jacob strikes me as a man who would test the waters, who needs someone who challenges him in every possible way, and if he finds an opportunity to flirt in dangerous situations he will take them.  
> 4.) Outfits—I read an article where a person point out the historical inaccuracies in the wardrobes of Syndicate. It was an interesting read and helped me figure out a description for Jacob’s outfit, but that being said I’m not nitpicking about historical accuracies in a one shot story. I’ve edited a few things, but overall I haven’t completely done away with the Ubisoft character designs. If it had been a long story I would have put more work into it, but as it stands, I just accept that the AC world is an alternative universe thus maybe the progression of styles are different than the real world? A cheap excuse, but it’s what I’m going with.  
> 5.) I HATE THE WAGON RACES! But I love stealing Blighters carriages and get their stuff, but it is still a bit of pain. I also dislike when I fall or get thrown off a wagon it takes Jacob or Evie so long to recover and I can’t get back up to pursue whatever target I had. 
> 
> Comments and kudos please! :D


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